Chapter Four
Surveying the ballroom, Ben found himself unable to believe he was actually there. Dressed in the finest evening wear, cravat tight around his neck and jacket tailored to precision across his broad shoulders, the son of a land steward was attending one of the most exclusive balls in London.
‘I’m not sure these masks conceal our identities,’ George Fitzgerald said from his position beside him.
Ben shrugged. ‘I’m not sure they’re meant to.’
They were standing at the perimeter of the Scotsworths’ ballroom for what Ben had been informed was an annual masquerade ball. The women were dressed in flamboyant outfits and their masks were nearly all elaborately decorated. Many of the men had gone for a more subtle and less time-consuming approach of wearing their normal evening jackets and adding simple black or single-coloured masks that covered their eyes. Ben’s was black, but did have a rather annoying feather protruding from one edge that every so often would flop in his face and tickle his forehead.
‘Why are we here?’ Fitzgerald asked shrewdly.
Since arriving in London three weeks ago they’d attended a number of balls and soirées, even once braving the unknown world of the opera, but tonight was the first night Ben had actually insisted they accept an invitation.
‘To enjoy the magic of a masquerade ball,’ Ben said with a straight face.
Fitzgerald laughed, clapped his friend on the shoulders and shook his head. ‘Keep your secrets for now, Crawford—one day I’ll find out what you’ve been up to these last few weeks.’
Ben grinned, but it was almost entirely forced. He hoped no one would find out quite how pathetic he’d been in the weeks since their arrival in London. When Sam Robertson, the third member of their little group, had suggested the trip back to their homeland from Australia, Ben had quickly agreed. He had told his friends that he wanted to see his family again, at least what was left of it. Eighteen years ago, he’d left his father and younger brother behind in a sleepy Essex village. For four years he hadn’t heard a word from them—the post never arrived for prisoners held on the hulk ships on the Thames or during the eight-month voyage to Australia. Only once he was working as a convict worker for the late Mr Fitzgerald the elder did he receive a tattered and torn envelope.
His father had written every month and must have paid considerable sums of money to ensure his communications were loaded on to the ships heading for Australia. Ben had no doubt most of these letters had never left England and could be found disintegrating at the bottom of the Thames. But one had got through—one conscientious and kind pensioner guard had taken Ben’s father’s money and promised to do his best to place the letter in Ben’s hand and, nearly a year later, he did just that.
Ever since Ben had kept in contact with his father from the other side of the world. Of course, he was keen to return to Essex and see the old man again and would do so as soon as his father returned from his poorly timed trip to Yorkshire. His father was an estate manager and as such at the whim of the Earl he worked for, but soon he would be back home in Essex and Ben would see him for the first time since the age of twelve. However, the other reason for his agreeing to the trip to England he wasn’t even sure would appear tonight. For three weeks, he’d haunted the ballrooms of London, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl he’d left behind all those years ago.
Francesca. She was a woman now, of course. A woman who’d probably hadn’t thought of him much at all these last eighteen years. When he’d landed in England he’d made some discreet enquiries and found she’d been married and recently widowed. He was beginning to understand those in mourning didn’t socialise as much as the rest of the lords and ladies and had started to despair of ever setting eyes on her, but tonight he’d heard a rumour Francesca would be in attendance to chaperon her younger sister.
So here he was, waiting eagerly for a glimpse of the woman who probably didn’t even remember him.
He
